I wasn’t pleased, because Sunday is one of the few days I don’t have morning practice on the firing range and I was planning a nice lie-in followed by football in the pub. She got my attention by pestering my mum to the point where my mum gave in and rang me on my mobile. This included Alfred Kamara, who lived on the same estate as my mum, and through him his thirteen-year-old daughter, Abigail, who decided, on the last Sunday before Christmas, that she wanted me to go look at this ghost she’d found. Struck by an unanticipated burst of maternal pride she proceeded to outline my new career path to her friends and relatives, a body I estimate to comprise at least twenty percent of the expatriate Sierra Leonean community currently in the UK. My mum translated this in her head to “witchfinder,” which was good because like most West Africans, she considered witchfinding a more respectable profession than policeman. Not the police bit, which of course she already knew about, having been at my graduation from Hendon, but the stuff about me working for the branch of the Met that dealt with the supernatural. Back in the summer I’d made the mistake of telling my mum what I did for a living.
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